


Not Worth the Wound

by cultivateourgarden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John Whump, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultivateourgarden/pseuds/cultivateourgarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a plan when he goes to the roof of St. Bart's.  Unfortunately, so does Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Worth the Wound

It was time. John was safely away, with Mrs. Hudson. Molly was ready. The plan was as secure as he could make it. So many variables he couldn't control, so many risks, and John's life as a forfeit if he failed, if he _failed_...

No, this would work. It must work. Likely his preparations wouldn't all be necessary, if he could force Moriarty to call off his dogs--and he could be...persuasive when necessary.

He took a deep breath and walked out onto the rooftop, elaborately casual. There was a click of a gun behind him and Sherlock turned casually, refusing to hurry despite the instinctive and inconvenient jump in his gut. "Moriarty. Hardly your usual technique, a gun. I can't imagine you want to do anything so tedious as shoot me."

Moriarty grinned manically, wild and much, much too confident. "Oh, not at all, Sherlock. I'm going to do _much_ more than shoot you." He giggled, high and mad. "But if you try anything stupid, I suppose I'll have to settle. Kneel down, hands behind your head."

This was not good. This was very not good, this was not remotely what he was expecting. Brute force wasn't Moriarty's style, he was a genius, he had to be clever, he had to _prove_ he was clever. Fragility of genius, needs an audience. He felt the man beside him, the gun to his temple. No way to make a move without dying. "What's your game, _Jim_?"

Instead of answering him, Moriarty spoke, as if to empty air--though a wire, obviously. "Bring him up."

There was a few minutes of silence, and then a tall, thin man with an angular face--

_(Former military, going by bearing, stained teeth--doxycycline--but faded, out at least five years--not his choice of clothes, expensive but moves slightly uncomfortably in them as if ill at ease, trained killer, assesses the situation on coming in but has no emotional connection...)_

With a knife in the small of John Watson's back. Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily before he controlled himself, feigning a disinterested look. John wasn’t supposed to be here, this was meant to be between him and Moriarty.

"You lost your pet again. Not a very responsible owner, are you?" Moriarty taunted.

"We've watched this film before, Jim. Sign of a dull mind, repeating yourself."

The ex-soldier brought John out onto the roof, well away from where anyone would see. Cuffed as well, though he'd put up a fight, based on the bruises he could see on Moriarty's man. And he knew it was soundproof up here, only a maintenance area below, no one would hear unless shots were fired.

"Not exactly," Moriarty laughed. "No. Not this time. You see, I wanted to make you kill yourself, but you had a plan--oh, I know you had a plan, you're like me. You always have a plan. No." He paused for a moment, smirking. "You see, I wanted to end the world, but I’ll settle for ending yours." And with a brutal, rattlesnake strike, Moriarty’s accomplice plunged the knife into John's side.

"JOHN!" tore from Sherlock's throat before he could stop it, trying to lunge forward without thinking, until the cold barrel of the gun checked him.

"Not another move, Sherlock, or I'll put a bullet through your head." Instant death, or close. No help to John if he was dead.

John's face was contorted in a rictus of pain as the man dragged the blade through his side--

_lung-kidney-liver-stomach; human can lose up to 15% of blood volume without serious side effects--move for him now--no bullet in my brain before I got a foot, no chance of help--attack Moriarty--no--distraction--_

There was so much blood, already soaking John's shirt and trousers, leaving him pale as the man wrenched the knife out, leaving nothing to stop the wound, nothing to keep--Sherlock fought for mastery over himself. "Hardly--you--" He couldn't speak, throat closing with panic. John. John was going to bleed to death if he didn't--John was going to--

"What's that? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you swallowed a spider?" Moran was holding John now, more to support him, but with the blade pressed to John's throat. John was breathing raggedly now--

_something wrong...raspy. Blood on his lips, no, no. Lung. Damaged lung, internal damage, need to get him to a trauma unit, need to **THINK**!_

Sherlock managed to swallow past the massive lump, trying to force his voice to calm. "Just kill him? Hardly interesting. I expected better of you."

Moriarty snickered--he hated that laugh, hated it--wanted to strangle him, white hot rage swelling in his chest, futile and blinding. "I told you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you. And you--well, we're going to leave in a minute, and you're going to stay here, because otherwise, your doctor will die.

"Of course, he probably will anyway. So unlucky!" He nodded sharply and the ex-soldier dropped John, who tried to catch himself but fell instead, hard on his stomach-- _grit in the wound, danger of infection raised_ \--letting out a breathless noise that would have been a scream if he had the air to do it.

Then the gun was gone and Sherlock burst out like a a shot, running to John's side, pulling out his mobile, calling 999.

"Rooftop. St. Bart's--John's--hurry. Stabbed." He tossed the device aside, ignoring the other questions as he turned John over.

_Pale, ashy pale--clammy. Circulatory shock. Heart trying to pump faster to compensate, pushing out more blood._

He yanked off his scarf pressing it against the wound hard, bringing another breathless cry from John. The blood soaked through it, red and brilliant and _wrong wrong wrong_ on his hands.

"Sh--Sherlock. G--go. Going t-----to...escape."

Sherlock shook his head, angry, furious at the idea that he could go now, when John was _not dying not dying not dying can't be dying_ bleeding. "Not important. Shut up, John, your lung's been damaged."

"Sh...shock---nngh...too m--much..."

"No. _No,_ John, you are not allowed to be an idiot--I know you are an idiot, but you are not permitted. I forbid you to say anything idiotic, just--be quiet. They'll be here in a moment."

What was taking so long, didn't they know how much blood there was? Organ damage, so many organs in the side of the body.

"S...sorry." His eyes fell closed and Sherlock scowled, a burst of rage pushing to the surface.

"John. John, don't sleep. Do you hear me, you can't sleep. John? _JOHN!_ "

The bleeding was slowing, not spurting out so heavily through the scarf--so dark it was hard to tell when the scarf ended and John began. "Bleeding's stopping, John. That's good, that's better, the bleeding stopping is good. You'll be fine, they'll be here in a moment, you'll be in the hospital and I'll shout but you'll be fine. John, you--John?" It was quiet, why was it so quiet? There should be raspy gasping sounds, wrong, but-- "John?"

"John." A sob welled up, brutal and half a scream. " _Please!_ "

But there was no answer.


End file.
